


Without knowing how, or when, or from where...

by AbbieD_Arcy



Series: Of bookshops and Bentleys (Ineffable Husbands Week 2019) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Books, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, M/M, Pablo Neruda's Poetry, Poetry, Romance, prompt fill: poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 15:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbbieD_Arcy/pseuds/AbbieD_Arcy
Summary: "That dance they had started 6.000 years ago had started to change its tempo..."Written for the Ineffable Husbands Week. 1st prompt, Poetry





	Without knowing how, or when, or from where...

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is my first Good Omens fic, so any feedback would be highly appreciated. I truly hope you all like it!!

It had been only a few weeks after the Armagedon’t (as Crowley had started calling it) when all started. The world was still turning, the sun still got out from the east. You go the gist. But for Crowley and Aziraphale, the world was a new world, full of things they could do.

Oh, the possibilities.

They had started doing things they never allowed themselves, always with the other in tow. And for them, it felt like something was shifting between them. No Heaven or Hell to worry about (much).

That dance they had started 6.000 years ago had started to change its tempo.

* * *

After fending the last person out of the bookshop, Aziraphale sighed. His mind had not been there for several hours, and the angel nearly felt as human said tired.

He missed his demon like crazy.

Miracling a cup of hot chocolate, he curled himself on his favorite sofa, hoping that Crowley would not be late and picking a book to pass the time. It was one of those Crowley had gifted him during their time on earth, but this one felt special.

One hundred love sonnets by Pablo Neruda.

He had read the author, of course. Luckily for him, being an angel allowed him to understand all the languages She had created at Babel’s tower, so he liked to read him in his native Spanish. For him, his poems were full of life, of love and passion...

It was so much like Crowley to gift him something like this, he thought with a smile, caressing the spine of the book. A beautiful edition, with a bookmark and an inscription written in his curly and elegant calligraphy.

"_I saw this one and thought of you. I hope you like it 'Zira_"

Trying not to think too much and to not see what his lovesick fool of a mind could create, he opened the book by a random page. But, when he started reading the sonnet he stopped, feeling the heart (that he had materialized in his chest so long ago) halting a beat.

By Her name…

_No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio_

_o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:_

_te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,_

_secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma._

_Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva_

_dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,_

_y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo_

_el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra._

_Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,_

_te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:_

_así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,_

_sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,_

_tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,_

_tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño._

Tracing the letters, he felt his heart, rebellious whispering one name. With trembling hands, he reread it.

He loved the soft and sweet smile he tried to hide so much. The way he had always been there even when he had been awful to him. The way he went to Heaven and back to protect him. That even if he was a fallen angel, one who should hate heaven he still was the nicest and best being in his life. He loved all he was; not knowing where had it started…

He was an angel, a being of love. But Crowley had taught him what it meant to fall in love with someone. To love someone because of the little things. To love someone because he made every day brighter just by coming through the door…

“Angel, you there?”

Speak of the devil, the angel thought with a smile. He picked a bookmark and left the book in the table, going to greet his demon…

**Author's Note:**

> The sonnet is the XVII sonnet from "One Hundred Love Sonnets" by Pablo Neruda and it's one of my favourites. I'm spanish and for those who can't understand it, here is a translation 
> 
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii
> 
> Have a good day!


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